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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30008271">Curtains</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarrietsFriend/pseuds/HarrietsFriend'>HarrietsFriend</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hunters (TV 2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 20:48:44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,555</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30008271</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarrietsFriend/pseuds/HarrietsFriend</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Reclusive ex-Mi6 agent Sister Harriet spends most of her days indoors, shunning human contact. When Layla, a spirited, but awkward college student shows up on her doorstep, Harriet's decision to engage with her spawns an array of complexities for both parties.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Curtains</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s been fifty-four days since I’ve left the house.<br/>
The dining room curtains unleash a dust storm as I shake them open. Slate-black and musty, I doubt if they’ve ever parted. Light burns through the window, piercing my skin the way it might some damned creature of the night. I’m disturbed, but not at all surprised at the oddity of this sensation, the feeling of fresh heat nuzzling my face. It’s something I haven’t experienced in a while, and I hesitate to allow myself to get used to it. Summer here came on suddenly and without warning—in a flash of burnt red, pastels and humid breezes were swapped for searing, orange skies. The sound of neighbor children splashing in their kiddie pools calls to mind some distant time when hiding was a game of fun, not of survival. The laughter of parents at block barbecues reminds me of the world that exists beyond these walls. In another lifetime I might have gone to join the party, popping soda cans and toasting marshmallows alongside the uninhibited ones. But that was then and this is now. Today I’ll leave the house for the first time in nearly two months, and it will be to head straight to the market and straight back home. No time for dilly-dallying or idle chat. I decide to leave the curtains open while I’m gone in order to let in a bit more sun. Because it’s been so long since I’ve stepped foot in the world of the living, I realize I’ve forgotten where my shoes are. I head upstairs to my bedroom, where I suspect they may be hiding underneath my bed. Or in the closet behind one of several boxes of classified documents. Maybe even in the bathroom next to the toilet. My initial suspicions are confirmed, and I pull them out from under the bed. They’ve gathered some dust, so I fetch the nearest dry cloth and wipe them down before slipping them on my feet and heading outside.<br/>
Years ago, as a young girl, I caught a baby frog. Unwilling to release the poor thing back to its marshy habitat, I took it home and placed it in a mason jar. Papa was unpleased with this and told me, “Rebekah, a little creature like this doesn’t belong in a cage.” My defense was that frog would still be fed, still be able to see outside the jar, and Papa just shook his head and told me that a glass cage is still a cage. It took a few days, but my six-year-old ego finally came around, and I let the baby hop free. Decades later I’ve come to fully appreciate my father’s wisdom—as well as my decision to do the right thing. I imagine the frog felt as I do, stepping outside after being cooped up for so long. I shut the door, twisting the handle for good measure, and make my way up the street. I’ve emerged from the house at a carefully chosen time so that I might avoid the eyeing of neighbors, but I’ve got a go-to response up my sleeve just in case: my name is Anne Burke, I’m a freelance journalist, and I’m renting the place until I can get settled into something more permanent. I’m sure they’ll gawk at the habit, but I’ll tell them that will have to be a story for another time, sparing no pains in driving home the point.<br/>
My ten-minute walk to the market is shockingly uneventful. I don’t know what I was expecting to happen, but it never did. After years of looking over my shoulder around every turn, it’s strange to not meet a single gaze on an outing—to not question, even for a moment, whether the man in the trench coat is watching you as intently as you’re watching him. Maybe, I think to myself half-jokingly, I spent so much time locked up in the dark I’ve faded into something invisible. No complaints, though. This is how I like it.<br/>
At the store I gather eggs, milk, a pack of biscuits, and some bulk groceries for the freezer. I get a few funny looks, but don’t entertain them. Near the checkout stand is a row of fresh paperbacks and I browse the collection to see if there’s anything worth taking back to the<br/>
house to keep me entertained for the final three weeks of lockdown. Romance, sci-fi, junk. Never could see the appeal of that sentimental tosh, and after dealing with the scum I have in Europe, I’ve seen enough aliens to last a lifetime. Instead, I pick up a newspaper and the latest issue of National Geographic, “Kyoto and Nara: Keepers of Japan’s Past.” Looks interesting enough, so I toss it in my cart. The cashier, a lanky adolescent, murmurs a quick “hullo” and scans my items without making eye contact. I briefly consider chanting under my breath, or perhaps cracking a joke about what the sisters might do when they learn about my night on the town, but decide against it. I’m hardly in the mood for small talk and really just want to get out of there.<br/>
“Have a nice day,” the boy says as he hands me my bags. His tone is that of a young child who’s been forced to apologize to his sibling for one transgression or another.<br/>
“That I’ll do,” I tell the lad, grinning like a mad woman just to piss him off.<br/>
My walk home is as quiet as my walk to the store. I try to soak up as much sun as possible, as it’ll probably be close to another month before I leave the house again—but this time, thankfully, for good. The moment that call comes from New York I’ll pack my bags and hit the road before the neighbors can blink. Still, I’m facing another twenty odd days pent up, so there’s no reason to celebrate, I feel, just yet. Besides, I’m not entirely certain of what I’m getting myself into. For all I know, a month from now I could be on my knees begging every deity in existence to whisk me back to the confines of the dumpy little house on Willowbrook Lane.<br/>
When I arrive back at my suburban prison, someone’s waiting for me on the front porch. She stands at the top of the steps, facing the door, but turns around at the sound of my heeled boots coming up the sidewalk. The girl is young, maybe in her late teens or early twenties, and audibly gasps at my presence.<br/>
“Oh, hi!” she chirps, coming down to meet me. “I just wanted to see if anyone really lives here. My name’s Layla. I live nearby, and I thought I saw someone leaving the house a while ago, so I decided to come check things out, seeing as there have been no signs of life at this place in a long time.”<br/>
“I live here. I don’t get out much, but this is my house, and I don’t appreciate folks showing up unannounced.”<br/>
Layla’s face, sun-kissed and cinnamon, reddens to a bright crimson. “Oh god, I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude or anything. I’ll leave right—“<br/>
“Do!” I snap, instantly taken aback at my own harshness. I don’t mean to be so cross with her, but snooping children spell danger for everyone involved, and I can’t risk having her return—potentially bringing along the entire neighborhood.<br/>
Without another word, Layla darts past me, setting off at a brisk walk up the street. I wait until she’s out of sight before heading inside, slamming the door and the curtains shut behind me.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>	She swore she’d have a horse of her own. Somehow, eventually. On days like these, when the air was oppressively muggy and she dragged herself home from her job at the thrift store on nothing but her threadbare Converse, she’d close her eyes and imagine a scene like this: a small mare or stallion coming to greet her at the edge of a crisp mountain meadow, tossing its head not<br/>
out of frustration, but joy. Together they’d ride off into some storybook sunset and she’d turn around and laugh in the faces of everyone that had ever dismissed her talent. She wanted them to see her, see her atop this glorious mount, this animal that had chosen her out of all other humans to be its companion. Most of all, she wanted Kirsten to see her. The thought of her coworker and former riding instructor’s mouth agape at such a sight was enough to put a toothy grin on her own face. It hardly occurred to her that she probably looked a fool, walking up Willowbrook Lane like a toddler engrossed in the most hilarious conversation with her imaginary friend. Yes, one day Kirsten would be proved wrong—in every possible way.<br/>
Layla’s equine fantasies evaporated as she came up on that house. Entranced by the home’s cryptic silence, she fought the urge to hurry on her way. It was early evening and the sounds of families squabbling and dinner plates clacking oozed from every other house on the block but this one. Layla couldn’t even see into the house, as each of its windows were blackened. The longer she stood there the more she began to seriously consider knocking on the door. Nearly a week had passed since her confrontation with the irate homeowner, and she’d been toying with the idea of going over and making a proper apology anyway.<br/>
She bit her lip and thought. The woman had said she lived there and just didn’t get out very often, but Layla was almost certain she’d never seen her around before. That house had been unoccupied for two years, ever since the Jamisons left, which meant she would have had to have moved in fairly recently. Why then, Layla wondered, hadn’t she noticed any moving trucks or commotion on the property? She couldn’t help thinking there was something off about the situation, but felt guilty over having disturbed the woman—probably some poor sister that had been cast out of the convent and was now too ashamed to show her face in public so she spent her days hidden away in the house. Just like a beleaguered fairy tale princess. Tragic, really. It struck her that she hadn’t even gotten the woman’s name.<br/>
Gathering her nerves, Layla started up towards the house. She hoped that because she had come to make amends the homeowner would excuse her stopping by again, but wasn’t counting on it. Still, her new job required that she pass this house on her way home every day, and she didn’t think it wise to leave any unfinished business between them. Better to make things right now, she supposed, than allow a grudge to fester. She approached the black door, rung the bell, and prepared for the worst.<br/>
Close to a minute passed before she heard so much as a stir from inside the house, and she had almost changed her mind and decided to book it when the door opened. At first it was just a crack, only so wide as to expose a sliver of natural light that Layla soon identified as coming from a kitchen window at the back of the house—it appeared to be the only open window in sight.<br/>
“What,” came a stern voice from behind the door, “do you want?”<br/>
“Oh, hi,” Layla said. “Listen, I just wanted to stop by and apologize for the other day. I know we didn’t really have the chance to talk things through, and I didn’t want you thinking I had come by the house to snoop or anything. I was just curious to see if someone lived here, but I can tell that upset you, so I just wanted to let you know I’m sorry and I won’t be coming back again.”<br/>
The door opened fully, revealing the stony face of the homeowner. Her crystal eyes stared Layla down as if fully prepared to fire lasers at the slightest provocation. She leaned against the<br/>
doorpost, folded her arms, and asked in her biting British accent, “Don’t you kids have anything better to do than harass me? You’re the third one this week, for fuck’s sake. First boy tossed his football into the backyard. The second, a little snot-nosed dribbler, came banging on the door trying to sell me some sort of putrid fundraiser cookie dough. I would have thought the complete and utter sound of nothing radiating from the house would have made it clear enough that I’m not interested in entertaining guests. Of any kind, shape, size, or age. For any reason. Have you got a brain in your head, girl? Then use it and remember what I’m telling you: I would like for you and every other busybody on this block to leave me be and never return. Need I repeat myself?”<br/>
Though startled at the woman’s tirade, Layla’s temper prevailed and she pressed further in a manner that was out of character for her. “You know, I just came to say I was sorry. I think it’s really unnecessary for you to treat me this way.”<br/>
The homeowner seemed just as surprised at Layla’s reaction, as her glare loosened to a more neutral expression.<br/>
“Look at this,” Layla said, gesturing around at the property. “You’ve got an amazing place here, so much space, and yet you live alone and refuse any sort of company. Why?”<br/>
“That,” the woman said, “is none of your business.”<br/>
Layla sighed. “I guess not. But it’s just…sad to me. That you don’t seem to have any friends, I mean. Maybe if you were nicer—”<br/>
“Good god, I don’t need or want friends. And the only thing being nice will get you is killed.”<br/>
“That seems oddly hyperbolic,” Layla said, unable to keep herself from snickering.<br/>
“It’s not. Believe me, girl, you have no idea.”<br/>
“Well, anyway, now that I’ve said my piece and we’ve established that you never want to see me again, I guess I’ll be off. Wouldn’t want to ruin any more of your day. But I really am sorry about that first time.”<br/>
The homeowner nodded, indicating her acceptance of the apology.<br/>
“Oh, and hey, I don’t think you ever told me your name.”<br/>
The woman groaned and rolled her eyes.<br/>
“It’s cool if you don’t want to tell me,” Layla said. “I was just curious.”<br/>
As soon as it became clear that she’d never get an answer, Layla started down the porch.<br/>
“Harriet,” the woman said.<br/>
Layla came to an abrupt stop halfway down the stairs and turned to face the woman. “See you around then, Harriet. Or not. Whichever you prefer.”<br/>
“Oh, I think you know bloody well what I prefer. I prefer my yard and home child-free. Understood, Layla?”<br/>
“Understood.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>	On nights when the dreams come I like to curl up at the attic window with my favorite mug. There’s freedom in the darkness, I’ve found, a freedom less fleeting than that of the daylight, where one is under constant observation by the outside world. I feel safe here, like I’m connected only to those whom I choose to be. Long ago, on summer nights like these, my parents would spread our wool blanket over the front lawn and we’d fall asleep under the stars—I guess that’s why I’ve always had such a fondness for the night sky. Sometimes I wonder if my mama and papa and all the generations that came before us are up there looking down on me, and I wonder if they’d be proud of who I’ve become; of the choices I’ve made.<br/>
Tonight I woke just after two thinking I was back on the train headed west. For just a moment, before I managed to fully orient myself in my surroundings, I was ten years old and staring out the window at Papa. He waved goodbye as the train began pulling out of the station, and I tried to wave back at him before collapsing on the train floor in a sobbing heap. This occurred just before I snapped out of my distressing slumber, but I know how the rest goes, because I’ve had this dream every week since leaving my childhood home. It involves blurred flashes of black pinafores and crucifixes and little girls caught between two conflicting identities, and often ends with me breaking through the walls of the convent and literally soaring back home to my parents, grazing the tops of royal blue skies on my journey. The nights I get that far are the worst nights. I much prefer ending the dream on a somber note, perhaps in the midst of a fight with one of with my bunkmates, or upon receiving my Christian name, or at the dinner table with Sister Colin when she first removed my supper from me, because then I’m grateful to wake up. The nights I fly home are the nights I come to the attic, and usually, just as I did as a child, I fall asleep with my face to the heavens.<br/>
In the morning I’m woken again, this time by a thunderstorm—one of the worst I’ve seen on the East Coast. Grumbling, I get up from my mess of blankets on the attic floor and rub the sleep from my eyes as a particularly loud clap of thunder rattles the window next to me. I’d planned to do some gardening out back today, but unless things clear up I’ll be spending the day reading or watching the telly. The upside, I suppose, is that this storm might just keep all those damn kids indoors for a spell. Not much use in throwing balls around and knocking on doors when it’s this wet out.<br/>
I get dressed, make some coffee, and sit down in the dining room with a soggy newspaper, prepared for another lazy day in solitary confinement. Per my usual routine, I scan the headlines for anything or anyone that arouses my suspicions, jotting down notes on information that could prove useful at a later time. The storm rages on for another hour before subsiding only slightly. While considering whether or not to leave the dining room sofa to go do some cleaning upstairs, a figure outside crosses my peripheral vision. The partially-opened curtains reveal Layla walking up the street, her dark brown hair drenched and weighty.<br/>
I’m not sure what’s changed from the time I last saw her five days ago to now, but it pains me, almost, to see her having to walk home in the rain. Five days ago I would have watched her on her way and jumped for joy at her passing the house without stopping. Today I feel a bit sorry for the girl, and I hate it—I’ve always sworn that the day I go soft is the day I drop dead. And yet I can’t bring myself to simply close the curtains and walk away. If I were my mother Layla would be inside already, probably at the table with a blanket and cookies, and I’d have fully apologized to her for my sourness. Then again, had it been my mother, I’m certain no apology would be necessary, as she would have never treated the girl the way I did. She’s a nice kid, that Layla. Irksome, yes, but kind, astute—a rare breed among youth. What I ought to do<br/>
seems obvious. That doesn’t make it any easier for me.<br/>
Before I can reason myself out of it, I hurry after Layla. She’s just about to round the corner and disappear from sight when I call her name. The moment she turns to look at me, her chocolatey eyes aglow with a childlike thrill at having won some coveted prize, I know I’ve lost. It’s as if she’d been expecting this sort of scene to play out eventually.<br/>
“Harriet,” she says, beaming at me. “How are you?”<br/>
“I’m well,” I respond, which isn’t entirely true, considering I’m days away from entering a potentially dangerous affair. “But I saw you walking by and wondered if you wanted to come inside and wait out the rest of the storm. You’re absolutely soaked.”<br/>
“Oh,” she says, blank-faced. And I feel a tad foolish for believing that she had somehow planned the whole thing. Her smile quickly returns, however, and she nods. “Yeah, that would be great, actually. Thank you!”<br/>
I shepherd her into the house and fetch a dry pair of clothes from the downstairs closet—a summer gown and bathrobe that I don’t think I’ve worn in a decade and don’t intend on getting back. Layla stands still on the doormat. Her gaze wanders around the dining room and she says, “This is such a pretty house. Victorian?”<br/>
“I believe so,” I reply, handing her the fresh clothes and directing her to the nearest bathroom.<br/>
“Wow. I mean, the Jamisons—the family that lived here before you—were pretty reclusive too, rarely had people over, so I never did get the chance to see inside this place.”<br/>
I nod.<br/>
While Layla’s in the bathroom changing I grab some drinks from the refrigerator. Despite the storm it’s still quite warm out, so I forego the tea and cocoa in favor of bottled lemonades. My kitchen, wildly unprepared for guests, is strewn with old newspapers and crosswords, so I tidy up a bit before Layla emerges from the bathroom, fresh-faced and rosy.<br/>
“Thanks for letting me come in,” she says, fastening the end of her long, thick braid. “Especially after…well, you know.”<br/>
“Actually, I wanted to speak with you about that. Do you have a moment?”<br/>
“Sure!”<br/>
At my invitation she takes a seat at the kitchen table. I hand her a lemonade and sit down across from her. “Look, Layla,” I begin. My voice is heavy with a shame I didn’t know existed until now. “To say that you and I got off on the wrong foot would be an understatement, and I’m sorry for that. It’s just…” I trail off, mentally weighing the risks of what I’m about to tell her. Layla holds her bottle mid-sip and gives me an anxious look. “Due to the nature of my work it’s critical that I maintain my privacy. That’s why you rarely see me leave the house. It’s why I don’t like people coming around. I’ve been instructed to stay indoors as much as possible while here.”<br/>
Layla purses her lips and avoids my gaze. She looks to be in deep thought. “Oh,” she finally says. “I think I get it now. So this isn’t actually your home? You’re just stationed here for your job?”<br/>
“You could say that.”<br/>
She downs a large swig of lemonade. “Uh huh. That makes sense, I guess. Well, if I had know that I definitely wouldn’t have come. Do you need me to leave? Because if my being here is messing up your gig at all, I totally can.”<br/>
“Well, I’m not going to be here much longer—only about another week, in fact—so I suppose it doesn’t really matter at this point anyway.”<br/>
“Seriously?” Layla asks. “Must be something pretty important calling your name, huh?”<br/>
“Probably,” I respond. “I’m being summoned to New York, but what I’ll be doing there is real hush-hush. I’m not even entirely sure what it entails myself.”<br/>
“Wow, Harriet. I didn’t know you were into all this undercover James Bond stuff!”<br/>
I give a halfhearted chuckle. Lord. If only she knew.<br/>
“So,” Layla says, squinting and leaning slightly forward over the table, eyeing my black garb and headpiece, “are you like a nun or something?”<br/>
“Long story kid,” I tell her, laughing genuinely this time.<br/>
“Been wondering, but didn’t want to ask.”<br/>
“I’m sure you have. But enough about me, I think it’s your turn to talk. Whereabouts did you say you live, again?”<br/>
“With my parents, just a few minutes up the street,” Layla answers. “I’m a senior at the university. I’m majoring in English, will be graduating next spring, and I work at that thrift store down by Rite Aid. I’d just gotten off my morning shift when you caught me—I could have easily made it home, it’s not far from here, but I’m glad you brought me in.”<br/>
I grumble. “Yes, well…”<br/>
“Yes, well, I think you’re a lot nicer than you give yourself credit for. Kind looks good on you—you should wear it more often.”<br/>
“I don’t know about that,” I tell her. “As I said the other day, being too kind can bring about all sorts of trouble.”<br/>
Layla nods, as if she now understands my reasoning. “Fair. And I guess in whatever sort of secret work you do, that’s got to be especially true, right? It kinda sucks, though, that you’ve been stuck here so long. Are all your assignments this way?”<br/>
“Not quite. I’m from out of the country, as you can probably tell, so I’ve got to be particularly cautious when starting a foreign job. Once I’m settled in New York things will be a bit different. I won’t be shut up in the house nearly as much.”<br/>
“Hmm. I see.”<br/>
Because I’ve got company I go ahead and open the kitchen curtains. The rain has finally stopped and it’s starting to get brighter out. I know what this means, and it’s disappointing to say the least. This has been the longest face-to-face interaction I’ve had in over two months. It upsets me more than I’m willing to admit that Layla will soon be on her way. “Looks to be clearing up out there. I suppose your folks are wondering where you are, no?”<br/>
“They both work during the day,” Layla responds. “But I should probably be going. I’ve got some things to do around the house, and besides, I don’t want to take any more of your time.”<br/>
She stands up, grabbing her bag of wet clothes from under the table. I see her to the door.<br/>
“I have to say, I’ve really enjoyed our little chat,” I tell her. “Shame I don’t get to do this sort of thing more often.”<br/>
Layla turns to look at me, puzzled. “Why not? I know you can’t really leave the house, but I could come visit any time you wanted. Before you have to go to New York, I mean.”<br/>
This touches me, but I don’t let on how much. It seems trouble always finds its way to me when I let my guard down. Inviting the child in to dry off was one thing—repeatedly drawing her back to the house is another. Dying a bit inside, I reject Layla’s offer. “That’s very kind of you, dear, but I think it’s for the best we part ways at this point. I’ll be gone soon anyway, and it’s not in either of our best interests to become even marginally attached to each other.”<br/>
Not unsurprisingly, Layla doesn’t take this well. Sporting a pitiful little frown, she asks, “Can’t I even stop to say goodbye before you leave?”<br/>
That frown. Those eyes, swelling before mine like they’re about to overflow. In this moment she looks much younger than her twenty odd years would suggest. Of course, I’ve never cared for children, never been at all enchanted by cherubic babes or charming tots, but there’s something different about Layla. It’s a notion I can’t shake, no matter how hard I try. This girl is special. It’s cringeworthy, really, that such a hackneyed idea would even cross my mind, but it’s the truth. I’ve never been captivated by someone, much less a young person, like I have been by Layla. She discerns my feelings, my motivations on some level that the other members of the human species do not, and I’m still not quite sure why. For the second time today, my heart conquers my brain, and I’m powerless—and perhaps unwilling—to stop it.<br/>
“You know what, why not?” I say. God, this kid’s already on her way to having me wrapped around her finger, and judging by the way her face lights right up at my concession, it appears she’s aware of it. Figuring I might as well go all in now that I’ve already played it risky, I add, “Come by this weekend, in fact. If you’re not working. Maybe we can go for a walk or something.”<br/>
“I’m off on Saturday—I’d love to! But are you sure you want to go for a walk? I don’t want you to feel like you have to leave the house on account of me.”<br/>
“No, no. I desperately need some sun, and as long as we don’t talk to anybody, I’m sure it will be fine.”<br/>
“Groovy!” Layla chirps. “I’ll swing by around lunchtime. Is that okay?”<br/>
“Yes.”<br/>
“And oh, I know the perfect place we can go on our walk. I don’t think we’ll run into anybody there.”<br/>
“Sounds dandy.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>	On Friday evening the closing crew at Mal’s Second Chance Thrift Shop decided to grab burgers and shakes after work. Layla, seeing an opportunity to extend an olive branch, offered to pay, and she suspected that was the only reason she was invited at all. Judy, the designated driver and team lead, grumbled something unintelligible to Kirsten and Scotty as the four of them piled into her red Pontiac Astre. Layla was forced into the back seat with Scotty, with the latter scooting as near to the window as possible. Layla’s face burned, and for a moment she contemplated getting out, but willed herself to stay. She knew that if was ever going to turn a corner with these guys it might as well start now.<br/>
“Let’s go to Burger Supreme,” Kirsten suggested as they pulled out of the thrift store parking lot. The others agreed.<br/>
While Judy and Kirsten swapped makeup tips and work gossip, Scotty sat hunched over his comic book, seemingly making it a point to ignore Layla as much as possible. She wasn’t sure what he had against her. Probably, she thought, he was only acting that way to impress Judy, whom Layla had recently overheard him telling Kirsten he was preparing to ask out. But then, that was how most things went around Mal’s—if you got on the wrong side of Judy, for whatever triviality, she’d ensure you were alienated from everyone and anyone who might have otherwise shown you an inkling of sympathy.<br/>
“Hey, Scotty,” Layla said, feeling bold.<br/>
Scotty grunted, which Layla supposed was better than nothing.<br/>
“Crazy day, right? Can you believe we were actually able to sell that old duvet? Looked like it was straight off the bed of some eighteenth century soothsayer.”<br/>
“Yeah, whatever,” Scotty mumbled. His eyes remained glued to the book.<br/>
When they arrived at the diner they took a booth seat near the front window. Layla listened while Judy and Kirsten debated whether banana nirvana or cherry berry delight was the healthier shake option. Scotty nodded along, feigning interest and mindlessly agreeing with each of Judy’s talking points.<br/>
“I’m on a strict calorie budget,” Judy said. “So I’ve got to take it easy.”<br/>
Judy was five-foot-two and about a hundred and ten pounds—and most of that weight was in her cascading black hair. Kirsten, a bright blond with turquoise eyes, wasn’t much bigger. Layla would have given anything to look like them and could hardly stand listening to their endless complaints about their genetic lottery winnings, but kept her mouth shut as to not stir the pot. She just smiled and sipped on her milkshake, mulling over how to spark better conversation.<br/>
“So, Layla,” Kirsten said, turning the group’s attention to the one they’d spent the whole trip ignoring, “tell us what you’re up to these days.”<br/>
Layla could tell by her tone that the question was not posed in good faith, and she refused to go for the bait.<br/>
“Not riding horses, I bet,” Judy snickered.<br/>
So Kirsten had told her. Layla didn’t know why she was surprised, but Judy’s statement caught her off guard, like she hadn’t expected the subject to arise right here, right now. Fighting to keep her cool she replied simply, “No.”<br/>
“I don’t think Layla’s cut out to be an equestrian,” Kirsten said, turning to face Layla and giving her a pat on the shoulder. “She’s not the most—how should I put this?—coordinated in the saddle. But that’s totally okay! I’m sure she’ll find her thing sooner or later.”<br/>
“I have a thing,” Layla said. Her entire body began to feel like it was on fire. “I have a lot of things. It’s just that I’ve always wanted to learn to ride horses.”<br/>
Layla caught Scotty roll his eyes and Judy pull a face.<br/>
“Yeah, I’m sure,” Kirsten said, taking a bite of her burger. “You’re just not…the type. Get what I’m saying?<br/>
Of course Layla knew she wasn’t the type—she wasn’t the type for dance, for horses, for making friends, or anything in between. How could she not know, she thought, when it had always been clear that she was different. Odd. Unwanted and unwelcome among each and every<br/>
circle she tried to break into.<br/>
“Trust me, hon,” Kirsten continued, “I did you a favor by letting you go. You were starting to embarrass yourself.”<br/>
Kirsten was older than Layla by a year and taught beginning horseback riding classes on weekends. Layla had taken three brief lessons from her that past spring, shortly after they both started working at Mal’s, before Kirsten dismissed her as unteachable. But Layla knew what this really meant—that she didn’t have the peppy personality traits to which Kirsten was accustomed to working with. All the other girls Kirsten taught were smart, beautiful, and most importantly, socially confident. Because Layla lacked each of these virtues, she was automatically shunned by Kirsten and the rest of the barn. Kirsten, having taken an instant disliking to Layla, then managed to turn the entire Mal’s team against her. If Layla didn’t desperately need tuition money and wasn’t getting paid as well as she was, she wouldn’t have stuck around. It didn’t help matters that every effort she made to be kind to her teammates, regardless of their hostility towards her, had so far proved fruitless.<br/>
“Yeah, take a tip from us,” Judy agreed, looking as though she was enjoying every second of Layla’s humiliation. “I think you’re better off doing something more behind the scenes. You’re just that kind of girl, you know?”<br/>
Judy’s sentiments only echoed what Layla had heard from adults all her life, but it was especially hurtful coming from a peer. She regretted coming along with them to Burger Supreme, and was more than happy when the time came to finally go. The girls and Scotty pranced out of the restaurant, leaving Layla behind with the trash. True to her word, she paid the bill.<br/>
By the time Judy dropped her off at home it was close to midnight. Layla tiptoed upstairs to her bedroom, careful not to wake her sleeping parents below. Once she was safely tucked into bed she let out what she’d been keeping bottled up all evening, but her tears weren’t just for what had happened that night. They were also for they many ways in which she felt hopelessly inadequate; for her fears that she would always be an outsider looking in, never a true participant in the world, merely an observer. It seemed that no matter what she did, she could never fit in. Her existence was one of music and animals and good books, but rarely people. When, she wondered, would she finally find her home? How long would it take, and how much of herself would she have to sacrifice to earn the world’s acceptance? </p>
<p> </p>
<p>	This morning I got a call from New York. They want me there in two days.<br/>
Caught off guard by the sudden change in plans, I begin packing straight away, as I’ll be on the first flight out of here tomorrow and meeting up with a fellow named Meyer Offerman—never heard of the guy, but it seems he’s the one I’ve been paired with to carry out this particular mission. It’s only now that I’m getting ready to leave that it strikes me just how comfortable I’ve gotten in this drab little house. I’ll miss its distinctive gothic interior, its turn-of-the-century spires. Of all the places I’ve lived, I have to say this one, despite its rather bleak ambience, has grown on me the most. I’m not thrilled at having to leave. The moment I start to feel at home in a place is always the moment I’m called elsewhere.<br/>
The knock I’d been expecting, but dreading ever since learning of my nearing departure comes a little before noon. With a heavy heart I open the door to Layla, who stands like a sunbeam on my porch, carrying a grocery bag. She wears a pink, sleeveless dress and beach hat.<br/>
“Hey, Harriet!” she says. “How are you doing? Are you ready to go? I was thinking about heading up to that little park by the supermarket. I packed sandwiches and treats!” But Layla quickly loses her smile as she registers the look on my face. “Is something wrong?”<br/>
“Layla,” I sigh, not knowing which of us is going to be more upset by the news I’m about to deliver, “I’m sorry, but I just received word that I’m needed up north immediately. I’ll require all day to pack. I’m afraid we won’t have time to go on that walk.”<br/>
“Really? Oh, that’s too bad. Do you need help?”<br/>
“I could certainly use it,” I tell her, looking around the dining room at my mess of half-filled boxes. “But I wouldn’t want to keep you from enjoying your weekend.”<br/>
“No, I’d love to help. Don’t have anything else to do anyway. Besides, I like spending time with you.”<br/>
I don’t know whether it’s my allergies, the dust I’ve stirred up from packing, or something else entirely—something I can’t bring myself to acknowledge—that cause my eyes start watering. I turn around and head for the kitchen before Layla can see me in such a state. “I appreciate the offer,” I tell her as stoutly as possible. “Why don’t you help me in here for a while? Most of the stuff up front is already in boxes. I just need to seal them, and I can do that quite easily on my own at a later time.”<br/>
I put her to work unloading dishes from the cupboards. The kid doesn’t say much as she packs. Every time I glance over at her she looks to be on the verge of tears herself. I hate my wretched heart for allowing all this to happen, but there’s no turning back now. That ship sailed long, long ago. “You know something,” I tell her, breaking the silence, “I’m going to really miss the weather here, especially coming from such a wet climate. The warmth has been a nice change—too bad I haven’t gotten outside to experience much of it.”<br/>
“I didn’t think you’d be leaving so soon. I mean, I know you said you only had about a week left, but this sucks.”<br/>
Layla avoids my gaze as she speaks. I didn’t expect she’d take the news well, but never thought she’d be quite so upset. Then again, I can’t say I understand my own feelings either. My relief at being released from lockdown has been quelled by the soon-to-be-broken attachment I’ve formed to the house, the weather, Layla. All of it. Against my better judgment I allowed myself to lay down emotional roots, and now I’m paying the price for it.<br/>
“Yes, it caught me off guard too,” I say, taping one of several boxes shut. “Just between you and I, I was beginning to like it here.”<br/>
At this, Layla stops what she’s doing and looks at me. “You were? But whatever secret job you’re doing has got to be a lot cooler, right?”<br/>
“I don’t particularly enjoy doing what I do, truth be told. It’s just one of those things you do out of necessity.”<br/>
Layla sighs. “Yeah. I totally get that.”<br/>
“Oh?” I ask. “Want to tell me more?”<br/>
“It’s my job at Mal’s. My coworkers are…well, they haven’t exactly gone out of their way to make me feel welcome. I took horseback riding lessons from one of them, Kirsten, and she basically kicked me out after deciding I wasn’t worth teaching, I guess. She and her bestie Judy have taken it upon themselves to make life miserable for me at work. I’ll just put it that way.”<br/>
“But you’ve got other mates to fall back on, no?”<br/>
Again, Layla averts her eyes, focusing solely on the task in front of her. Before I have time to regret the question she finally responds, “No. I don’t have any friends.”<br/>
“Come on now. Not a single one?”<br/>
Layla shakes her head. “Nope. And never really have. People don’t seem to like me.”<br/>
“Oh, I don’t believe that.”<br/>
The look on her face tells me she’s serious. The more I think on it, too, the more it all starts to make sense. Under no ordinary circumstance would a young girl take so to a person twice her age.<br/>
“They don’t,” Layla insists. “My classmates ignore me, my coworkers tease me, my parents are hardly ever home, and I spend most days alone. You’re, like, the closest thing I have to a friend.”<br/>
“Oh, Layla,” I sigh, growing more uneasy by the second. “I can’t be your friend. You’re a good girl and I enjoy your company, but I was never going to be here forever. Anyhow, we hardly know each other.”<br/>
“Yeah, but I’m just saying I think of you as a friend and I’m going to miss you. A lot.”<br/>
“I’m not a nice person, Layla. You even said so yourself, remember?”<br/>
“Quite honestly, Harriet,” Layla says, emphasizing each word, “you’re the nicest person I’ve met in a while. I did think you were pretty rude at first, but now I see that was all an act. Why else would you have invited me in out of the rain, given me a fresh pair of clothes? Why do you keep letting me hang with you? I just don’t get why you put this wall up. It’s like, deep down, you really do want human contact, but are trying to convince people—or yourself—otherwise. What are you afraid of? Why do you isolate yourself like this?”<br/>
“I believe we’ve had this discussion,” I tell her sharply. “My work is highly confidential and I can’t be—”<br/>
“I think it’s more than that,” Layla interjects. “You seem almost afraid of getting close to people, of leaving your own little bubble, so you just watch everything from a distance. And I think it’s because you’re afraid of getting hurt.”<br/>
“And what makes you think that, dearie?”<br/>
“Because I guess I’m kind of the same way. I’ve lost too many people that I thought were my friends, so I’ve become jaded towards the whole friendship thing.”<br/>
I don’t know much about Layla’s personal life. I don’t know her background, her deepest hopes and dreams. I don’t know what what makes her tick and, conversely, what kills her spark. What I do know is that she’s made it clear she sees something in me that most others have the luxury of not understanding. My instinct is to hate her for it, to shoo her away as a means of self-preservation, but as has always been the case with this kid, I can’t let her go. I just can’t let her go, and it kills me a little more inside each time.<br/>
“Maybe I’ve got good reason for it. Ever considered that?”<br/>
“Yes, and maybe I do too. I just really wish things could be different. For both of us.”<br/>
Thirty-seven years ago I wished the same. I wanted things to be different like I’d wanted nothing else. I wanted the war to be over and I wanted to return home. But home, I’ve learned, is what you make it, and wishing accomplishes very little. I try to keep that in mind as I help Layla load items into their moving boxes. My heart must remain sealed; forever a relic buried deep within my metaphorical attic. It’s the only way I can ever hope to prevent further injury. It’s the only way I can survive.<br/>
I keep Layla here for another hour before deciding it’s finally time to rip the bandaid off. “Well, Layla,” I tell her, looking around at the pile of boxes we’ve packed in the kitchen, “I think I’ve got it from here. I appreciate your help.”<br/>
She frowns. “Oh, I was planning on staying all day. It’s no problem.”<br/>
“I really think it’s better if you go, love,” I tell her. The words cling to the walls of my throat, fighting release.<br/>
It appears Layla gets the hint. “Okay,” she says, her voice cracking. “Okay, I’ll leave.”<br/>
This goodbye is more painful than I could have imagined, but I try not to let it show. Before heading out the door she turns to me and asks, “Could we at least exchange numbers? I’d like to be able to stay in touch with you.”<br/>
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I tell her in all honesty.<br/>
“I’m sorry,” Layla says, now starting to cry. “You’re the only friend I have right now, and it’s just so hard to see you go.”<br/>
It’s that face—usually bright bronze—red with grief that does me in one last time. If I had known opening the door to Layla that first day she dropped by to apologize for her initial intrusion would have led to all this, I might never have done it. In retrospect, however, I don’t  regret our meeting. At this point I still don’t know whether that frightens or encourages me.<br/>
“I’ll be back,” I say, and take her into my arms. It’s a promise I make on impulse, one I can’t logically justify, but that feels right in the moment. Why should I think, considering the many places I’ve been and the many I’ll no doubt land in the future that our paths would ever cross again? It’s a want, a wish, and something I trust the universe will grant me when and if the time is right.<br/>
“You will?” she asks, looking up at me. “When?”<br/>
“I don’t know. But we’ll meet again, somehow. I promise.”<br/>
She gently pulls away from me and wipes her eyes. I put on a brave face and tell her, “In the meantime, I wish you the best of luck in making some other friends. Get out there and find your crowd.”<br/>
“Thanks, Harriet,” Layla says with a smile. “And good luck to you with your new job. I’ll see you later.”<br/>
I watch her step out the door, down the front steps, and finally around the corner and out of sight—gone from my life just as quickly as she arrived. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>	The old Victorian on Willowbrook Lane wasn’t vacant for long. Around mid-September, just as the leaves started fading to a crisp gold, a moving van appeared in the driveway, bringing with it a family with two teenage boys. I still pass that home every day on my way home from work, and even though you were only there for a short time, I can’t think of it as anything but yours. What house are you living in now, I wonder? Does it possess the same kind of dark charm as this place, an enigma to the outside world, or are you squatting in some cramped studio apartment that reeks of stale ramen? Knowing you, I like to imagine it’s the former. For better or for worse, you seem to thrive best in the shadows.<br/>
Maybe you’d be interested to know that I found a new riding school. I’ve only been taking lessons for a few weeks now, but the people here are much nicer than they were back at Kirsten’s barn. I’ve also landed an internship with my school’s literary journal. Needless to say, my schedule’s pretty much booked, which has given me the perfect excuse to finally quit my job at Mal’s—my last day is this week. Though my parents aren’t too happy about that, I think they understand just how badly I needed to get away from it all.<br/>
As I watch the seasons change, and with them most things around me, I find myself missing you. I guess that’s a little dramatic, considering we never really had the chance to become friends friends, right? But that’s how I feel. You know how they always say you meet people for a reason? Sure, it sounds cliche, but I think someone or something bigger than ourselves pulled us together this summer; I think it had to have been more than curiosity that drew me to that house that first day you yelled at me. Do you believe in fate? I do. Sort of. Because it’s the only thing that can explain my feelings of loss. So weird that I only knew you for a matter of days, and seeing you go was harder than losing people I’d known for years. Guess that goes to show how some people just click. You know what I mean?<br/>
I’m holding you to your promise, by the way. Wherever you are, whatever you’re doing—you could be fighting giant pink Dalmatians on Mars for all I care—I expect to see you back soon. God, I didn’t even have the chance to show you around Clown Town—they have the best funnel cakes, Harriet!—or any of the local river trails. There are so many neat things I wish I could have shown you. Too bad almost all your time here was spent inside. But we’ll catch up on all this the next time around, okay?<br/>
Anyway, I hope you still think of me too. I really wasn’t lying when I said that you were the only friend I had. I’m trying to make some new ones at the riding school, but none of them are you. They’re all a little too bubbly, a little too simple-minded. To make things worse, not a single one of them has condescendingly referred to me as “kid” yet. Shocker, right? They’re nice enough girls. But like I said, they just aren’t you.<br/>
I wish I had an address so that I could mail this to you, but you left me with nothing. As such, this page will probably remain in my diary for eternity, never to be seen by another soul. It helps to write things out, though—it helps to pretend. Hope you’re doing well, Harriet. I hope you’re learning to open up to the world, even if gradually, just as I’m doing. Stay strong! We’ll meet again. Until then, try not to get yourself into too much trouble with those pink Dalmatians, all right? </p>
<p>Layla Parsons<br/>
September 17, 1976</p>
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